Honor's Solution
by SGCbearcub
Summary: Mopping up after the NID should have been easier.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story is being posted as a Christmas gift for a friend who wanted Sam gen. Hopefully I can get it finished in time.

* * *

Deep space radar telemetry. 

Eastman dropped his gaze disapprovingly to the foot Colonel O'Neill was tapping against the floor, then turned back to the files on his desk. Next to a small stack of five personnel files were two letters, the first being from General Hammond explaining what he needed from the CO of Hurlburt Air Force Base.

The second was signed by the President.

Eastman grunted. The George Hammond he vaguely remembered had been an USAF-approved pain in the butt. Still, his men had respected him, and in spite of the success of the missions under his command, large numbers of his soldiers had returned alive. However, Eastman considered the serious possibility that flying a desk must have driven the man insane.

Given that Major Carter's father was a General and the fact she spent two years in Washington, he could understand how she had gotten as far as she had. Her Academy grades had been unbelievable. He would bet his next three pays that she made a great think-tank soldier. But he sure as hell did not want some combat wash-out scoring brownie points on his base. How long had she lasted as a combat pilot? Eight months? Christ.

O'Neill's foot had stopped bouncing, and his hand was now using a pen to beat an irritating tattoo against one BDU-clad knee. Eastman had no clue why he was gritting his teeth instead of ordering the man to stop. He was the one wearing the stars. Unfortunately, this had somehow turned into a battle of wills and he could not pinpoint exactly when war had been declared. Be damned, however, if this paper-pushing, politico would win.

Carter made all too much sense. The linguist made sense. Sort of. With his years in the Middle East, he was most likely an ex-CIA asset. No doubt they had him translating grocery lists and listening in while the Ayatollah got it on with his harem - just in case the pillow talk proved interesting. Hell, even the unspecified technical specialist with the unspecified "allied army" background made sense. He was probably Israeli.

Eastman suspected that Brightman was just a victim of bad timing. What a bullshit exercise. A linguist, an astrophysicist, an unspecified technical specialist, and an over-the-hill desk jockey who was probably a blue flame burn-out. All because their department had scored low on a few efficiency tests. Eastman paused as something in the file he was reading jumped out at him.

He eyed O'Neill sourly. "You did several months Combat Search and Rescue in Vietnam?"

O'Neill grimaced," I always thought it was more search than rescue, but maybe that's just me."

Eastman felt his head snap back. The tattoo increased in tempo and expanded to include thumb taps. The sound scraped another layer off the nerves the Colonel was already grating and the flip attitude implied a disrespect to the pararescuers under Eastman's command that he was not prepared to ignore. Not from some PTSD ex-hotshot who spent seven years parked under a mountain when they had desperately needed combat pilots out participating in actual combat.

That said everything he needed to know about Colonel O'Neill.

Except why he was here.

He glared at the files in front of him.

Colonel John "Jack" O'Neill did not make sense.

Nobody this irritating, with a service history as bland as this man's would ever have made it to Colonel without a hell of a lot of help. Pilot, a few special ops extractions - no doubt also as pilot, a three year teaching tour here at Hurlburt back in the early 80's, and then a series of tours as Air Force Liaison to quiet, remote military bases. Consistently rated as calm, quiet, professional, dedicated if a bit introverted, and good at getting his reports in on time. All in all, the unremarkable portrait of the perfect desk jockey.

"Do you have an evil twin running around, Colonel?" he finally asked sourly.

The tapping paused. "Sir?"

Eastman held up his file,"I have no bloody idea what the hell you are doing sitting in this office."

O'Neill shrugged. "Just looking to get some extra training for my team, Sir."

Eastman snorted. "Your team."

Oh, he had no doubts this motley group were a team. But the way the Colonel said it grated. Like he actually believed it meant the same thing as it did to the rest of the soldiers on this base. Bah. The very thought was an insult. Team. What the hell would a man like this know about what it meant to be part of team? Eastman narrowed his eyes, then smiled mirthlessly.

"And Major Carter? Why is she here again?" Other than to make grade at the expense of someone who had actually earned the slot?

O'Neill froze.

For a split second absolute contempt crossed the Colonel's face and it was not until O'Neill tossed the pen back on the desk and regarded his superior officer coldly that Eastman realized it was directed at him. Reflex locked his muscles as a familiar feeling crawled across his spine and he stared into flat brown eyes. Frost coated the Colonel's next words with an arctic edge.

"She likes to blow stuff up."

Eastman's eyes widened. The nervous energy was gone. Smoothed into a lethal readiness that shimmered off a lean physique that suddenly looked a hell of a lot more predatory than it had a few minutes ago. Atavistic instinct sent a spurt of adrenalin into his bloodstream as recognition warred with annoyance. Eastman slammed his hand down on the desk.

He did not need this shit this week.

He glared at the SpecOps officer watching him and grabbed for Major Carter's file. Damn it! He hated when he ended up looking like an idiot. He had missed something. He knew that fact as well as he knew that the man sitting there smiling blandly was as much an operator as the rest of the men running around his base. Damn it to hell and back again.

Just what had Hammond sent him?

The DD 214s for Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter, Captain Brightman were classified into the stratosphere. Not just need-to-know, but situationally capable of kissing the President's ass classified. Eastman frowned and flipped through O'Neill's file a bit more closely. From the looks of things, sometime in 1998, almost ten years of service history had disappeared. A surgery that appeared not to have occurred with either Dr. Brightman or Major Carter.

That was...odd.

It was almost as if someone had simply taken a red pencil and starting removing things. In addition to oddly spaced gaps, there were numerous tours to remote bases as Air Force Liaison Officer and two large gaps, one in 1991 and one in 1994 officially labeled stress leave.

Enlisted at 18 in 1970. Transferred laterally in 1972 to hump communications equipment through the Vietnamese jungle for Captain William Garrin, O'Neill was assigned as the Air Force ROMAD attached to an army unit whose activities were still classified. The whole unit disappeared in 1973 - coincidentally just before the official pull-out - and everyone was reported MIA.

O'Neill resurfaced nine months later in a stateside VA hospital, suffering from a broken leg and withdrawal symptoms from the heroin some village farmer had used to treat the pain. So far, so good - except that the official record had ended with the presumed death of John O'Neill, MIA in the wilds of Vietnam.

John O'Neil, however, enlisted in 1975 as an eighteen-year old pilot candidate and holding acceptances to the Officer Training School. It was John O'Neil who married Sara Tate in 1981 and it was Colonel John O'Neil who retired in late 1994. It was also Colonel John O'Neil who was reactivated by General West in 1995 for a classified mission that ended with the Colonel again retiring several weeks later.

John O'Neil, who would have had barely enough years of service to actually be a Colonel without subtracting several missing years of service between 1980 and 1992. Both times, O'Neil had been apparently deactivated as a result of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome and after reactivating, had been shuffled off to some remote base as an Air Force Liaison Officer or administrative staff officer. Eastman had seen the stress leave and forgotten that just because the file said the man was not working for the government, did not mean the file was telling the truth. Nor did it mean the man had actually been where the file said he was. Especially if these so-called deactivations were invented after the fact nearly twenty years later.

He had to wonder just what O'Neill was doing in 1998 that was serious enough for the Pentagon to deliberately remove all possible methods of connecting certain missions or people from his past with his current assignment. That might explain the resurrection of John O'Neill however. They needed to explain how a man with sixteen years of official service could not only became a Colonel in the United States Air Force, but how he could have retired with less than twenty.

An extremely apologetic note dated 1998 helpfully explained that the misspelling of his name had created a data entry error that caused the computer to accidentally create a new file. The two files, the note went on to explain, had now been merged and a single paragraph about John O'Neill's time in the VA hospital stitched the two identities together.

There was no actual reason to believe the file was false. In fact, on the surface, the idea was ludicrous. Without meeting the man, Eastman would have assumed he was exactly what the file said he was. A man who had the experience and background to be an asset flying a desk. A man who had an established inability to cope with specwar-related combat stress under field conditions - but who probably did extremely well under 2000 feet of rock. A man who was obviously good at his job, judging by the sheer number of times the Air Force brought him back into the fold, but who was not Special Ops material.

Eastman snorted.

Unless O'Neill was on the short list for general, he was on his way out the door in another year as a mandatory. Retirement loomed, and Eastman could understand spending the last year teaching, but not when he was accompanied by the rest of his team. What the hell sort of team needed his sort of CO? Eastman could feel predatory brown eyes assessing him coldly.

"Stop that." he snapped.

O'Neill blinked innocently, but the feeling of menace eased.

Fucking hotshot.

Just had to push the envelope. Feeling extremely sorry for his daughter who had just married her own hotshot, Eastman flipped through Carter's file, this time more slowly. He eighty-sixed his assumptions about her father and went right back to her time as a pilot. 1991. He considered the date carefully. Whatever the military said about female pilots, he knew damn well they had been flying combat flights before 1993. They just had not gotten any credit.

Or medals.

He considered that fact as he reconsidered her sudden transfer to weapons systems officer. Then, not a year later, practically right out of the training program, she transferred to the Pentagon to work on a Top Secret research project. Three years later she disappears into Cheyenne Mountain and emerges seven years later with a Special Ops Colonel pushing for field experience as a Ranger TACP. Not for the training program, mind. But practical, in the field, hard core experience.

Son -of-a-bitch.

A Special Ops Colonel, an astrophysicist/WSO, a linguist, and an unspecified specialist with serious hand-to-hand training. All of whom worked out of Cheyenne Mountain, 2000 feet under rock, yet their CO still had an edge that could cut metal. Son-of-a-bitch.

They were a retrieval team.

He looked again at what O'Neill wanted him to do. Dr. Jackson was to be put through basic Special Ops field training. Not the kindergarten feel-good exercise designed for civilian liaisons either. Jackson was to get the full meal deal. Weapons, tactics, and practical things like hand-to-hand and S.E.R.E. training. Master Sergeant Theodore Murray was to spend half his time gaining practical experience passing on his knowledge of hand-to-hand and the other half learning to blow stuff up. Major Carter, in spite of the fact she had never taken the three month TACP training course and apparently had no SpecWar field experience whatsoever, was to join one of his elite Ranger teams as temporary TACP.

He wondered just what Colonel O'Neill had been doing for the ten years prior to being assigned to Cheyenne Mountain. He had a sneaking feeling if he started interviewing Ranger units, he was going to discover that O'Neill did indeed have an evil twin - and he had worn the black beret of a TACP. Which meant that Major Carter had already received her training in the field and O'Neill was just gilding the lily.

"You're retiring next year." he said bluntly.

O'Neill tilted his head, eyes watchful.

So...

"She's up for command." The words were said softly.

O'Neill just looked back.

Gilding the lily. Making sure his team had the training and experience they would lose when he was gone. Eastman could live with that. Especially since he had a hunch this team might actually know what sort of shit they had volunteered to wade through.

The least he could do was oblige them.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: On the second day of Christmas...

To answer some questions, I'm still working on my other projects, but this story is slated to be completed by Christmas Eve, so it'll have a higher posting rate. I'm assuming this story is set after Death Knell, so Captain Brightman is Dr. Brightman from Season Eight. I also need to explain the O'Neil/O'Neill stuff. It's purely backstory, not integral to the story beyond getting Eastman to realize there's more to Jack than meets the eye. Early in the show, spoken and prop canon suggested a DOB of 1957 for O'Neill. Then he was shown wearing medals from Vietnam and Entity showed the DOB on his ID as 1952. This was an attempt to explain the discrepancy rather than ignore it. I'm assuming his first five years were denied for some reason-probably due due something his team was up to in Vietnam after 1973. The military created J. O'Neil, then recreated J. O'Neill by stitching the two identities back together when they were scrubbing his file for the Stargate project. Therefore, when he says he's forty in brief Candle, he's not lying, he's just following orders.

* * *

Sam ignored the disapproval on the instructors' faces and sprang into a ground eating run not far below her top speed. Around her, her fellow students allowed her to race by them, content in the knowledge that she had just eliminated herself from the list of serious contenders. Sam ignored them as well, although she felt a touch guilty as Lt. Abrams caught up with her and hissed at her to slow down. He fell back with a sigh as she lengthened her stride and she gloried briefly in running strongly at the head of the pack. 

Nothing like ruining a reputation to get the blood pumping.

The minute she was out of sight of the starting line, the observers, and her temporary classmates, she slowed enough to get back to her target speed, but not enough to let the guys running behind her catch up. She needed to be well out of sight before she went to the next phase of this little operation. A brief stitch came and went, and then she was moving easily, her unusually huge pack riding uncomfortably between her shoulders. It was awkward as hell, but she knew from painful experience that she could run with it and survive. She would be taking prescription levels of Ibuprofen in order to move tomorrow, but she would survive.

She knew damn well most of the soldiers watching this exercise thought her ego had just burned the nominal mission. In fact, she suspected that one or two of the not so inaudible cracks about women in combat had been said specifically to see if she would lose it. She had to admit that if this had been seven years ago, it might have worked. Now it was just background noise. She had a real mission to complete. If catching the NID with their pants down just happened to mean she got to kick a few asses along the way, well, life was good.

Besides, the Air Force owed her a little payback.

The instructors knew she was smart and they knew how fast she could run, but they still thought she was nothing more than a lab rat. Her entry point into the river would give her plenty of choices for direction, but basic tactics dictated that some were more likely: easier, faster, with lots of cover. That was where they would assume she was headed-especially since she had just convinced them she was clueless about fieldwork. The fact that she had no intention of doing this easy was the reason she was running her breakfast off at this insane and painful pace. She had seven years of Colonel O'Neill's influence to thank for that strategy.

In-your-face, annoying, misdirection.

And one hell of a finish.

A few miles short of the river she slowed, then slowed again and stumbled a bit as though losing concentration. She regained her footing, but moved even more slowly, leaving a highly visible trail that suggested she had hit the limits of her endurance. Her brief smile turned feral. They might know how fast she could run, but she knew how long she could hold it.

She started interspersing her jogging with bouts of walking. By the time she reached the river, she was primarily walking, only sporadically picking up the pace, as if forcing herself to continue. She made sure to fall heavily to her knees at the water's edge, then clumsily tried to erase the marks left behind. She also took the opportunity to dig herself a cat hole and went to the bathroom. Any serious searching would find it, but better to look like an educated novice on this side of the river, than risk them finding one better hidden and displaying more skill on the other.

She was showing off, and she knew it. The best thing about this revenge however, was that it was all under orders. Last night, after finding out she had been selected to participate in this mock wargame, the Colonel had deliberately ordered her to "rub their faces in it". At the time, she knew he was angry on her behalf. The Ranger team she had been ordered to join had not made any secret about the fact they assumed she only got the job because of her father and having her fail spectacularly in such a public forum would have proven it to everyone. They had not quite had the stupidity to accuse Colonel O'Neill of unacceptable behavior, but the assumption was there. The fact that she needed to be accepted if she was going to successfully infiltrate the group did not take away from the fact that the Colonel had been tried and convicted on her behalf. She was beyond pissed about the implied insult to him and her teammates.

Her eyes were cold as she considered just how badly their assumptions wronged her CO.

He deserved their respect, not their innuendo.

And she had orders to make them pay.

She stepped into the water and began heading upstream as carefully as possible. She found the small creek she was looking for and inched her way toward her destination. With the lower water level, she had to be very careful not to overturn rocks or leave a gaping footprint in the bottom of the creek bed. Not everything depended on hiding this part of the route - if they found her trail, she could still make the insertion, but it would be a hell of a lot easier if they misplaced her. It was wet, cold, and painstaking work, but she knew her trail was damn near invisible. Teal'c had seen to that. She winced in memory.

Intars on maximum were one hell of a motivational tool.

She had never realized just how much she had picked up over the years - or how much Colonel O'Neill had initially let her get away with not knowing. He had been content to be paranoid enough for all of them until he and Teal'c almost died aboard the X-301. Suddenly the two of them were chasing the other half of SG1 across hill and dale like a pair of demented weasels.

Sneaky, merciless, paranoid and particularly nasty weasels.

On-world. Off-world. Hell - he had SG-3 snatch them out of bed one night and toss them through the Gate with a fifteen minute head start and their underwear. A year later, she and Daniel had still been plotting revenge when the Alpha Site blew. After that, not even the photo Ferretti had of her racing barefoot through the Alpha Site in a black t-shirt and blue panties could piss her off. That humiliating training op had probably saved her life.

She reminded herself this mission could be just as deadly.

It took her four hours to cover half the distance her two-hour run had covered earlier. Twice she thought she heard people moving up the main river. Slight splashes, the odd bird taking to the sky for no reason. Each time, she went to ground, freezing as she waited to see if anyone was around to give chase. When she did move, it was careful, with the full paranoid conviction that someone was out there watching. Even if they were not, Teal'c and his Intar had beaten it into her spinal reflexes that they were.

As distance went, she was extremely close to the target. Most of her competitors would go down the main river another couple of klicks. It would take longer, but it gave them the best options for cover and the least number of hazards as they tried to infiltrate the designated enemy camp. The cliff on the north side of the camp was at its lowest point about three klicks down river and according to the aerial photos, there was a decent amount of brush cover right up to the base of the cliff. It had good possibilities for the sneaky to avoid the ground patrols, but all those same patrols would have to do is sit in the trees with a night-scope and pick off the infiltrators as they climbed.

It could be done, but she was betting very few people tried it.

To her advantage, most of the more experienced participants were pilots. They were used to using image enhancement equipment and every instinct in their bodies would tell them to keep out of range of patrols with night vision goggles. Since they knew those ranges instinctively, and they would be at their most vulnerable when climbing the cliff, she was betting that those that took this more hazardous -but faster - north route, would use the one or two routes up the cliff that kept the brush cover the night patrols would use at least 400 feet back.

Of course, the enemy knew that too.

The Rangers assigned to the camp would be watching for anyone trying to cross the open ground between the brush and the base of the cliff anytime after dusk, the trainees no doubt planning to spend the night climbing. The climbers would be damn tired by the time they hit the top of the cliff and she suspected most of them planned to dig in to sleep for the day before heading for the camp tomorrow night. That's when the defenders would get them, assuming they survived the climb. She wondered how many would remember that at night, it would be damn easy for anyone at the top to hear them. It was high summer. The nights were short and by the time they crossed the open ground to get to the cliff, they would have to move faster than was wise if they wanted to be over the top before dawn.

They were dead already...they just did not know it yet.

The Rangers guarding the camp were damn good. She had marked several at the bar last night, watching the TACP students with narrow-eyed interest. They seemed to be taking note of who knew enough - or cared enough - to lay off the drinking and the tobacco. Nothing like killing your night vision the night before a mission to expose either ignorance or lack of self control, she thought wryly. Not to mention that the smell of the tobacco on their skin would get the smokers shot at 50 paces and the alcohol kicked the snot out of testosterone levels. More than one of the Rangers had eyed the beer in her hand with disgust, but no one said anything.

Was it her fault they assumed she was actually drinking it?

In any case, the enemy would deal with the impatient quite handily. The rest of theTACP students would wait until tomorrow night before climbing. The greater land area at the base of the cliff would make it next to impossible for a well hidden sleeper to get caught unless he got stepped on. The Rangers would probably run a few patrols to be thorough, but would concentrate most of their numbers at the vulnerable areas of the cliff where it would be harder for hidden sentries to watch the cliffs with night goggles. The trainees that waited until tomorrow night to climb would be well rested before the climb, would be able to scout the terrain, possibly mark some of the patrols, and give themselves a chanceto hie themselves into the brush at the top of the cliff to sleep.

Sam contemplated her plan again as the trees started to thin and she could see the cliff face rising high above her and startlingly close. The brook took an abrupt right turn and headed west. She left it behind and aimed carefully for the cliff. This part of the cliff wall was unbelievably close to the starting point of the course - which was why she had been able to reach it so quickly -and directly below the Ranger camp above. The woods were not densely packed, cover was sparse, and if someone in the camp took a whiz over the edge of the cliff, she was going to get pissed on. She grinned as she considered the Asgard would probably be impressed.

She was about to do something phenomenally stupid.

* * *

The key was going slow. 

Extremely slow.

She had taken two hours to weave grass and other bits of brush into the camouflage netting that had been responsible for the size of her pack. Then she had starting inching her way toward the cliff base. This was the highest point, the cliff here stretched almost three hundred feet above her head. Ground cover was minimal, and while the stretch of grassy field between the trees and the cliff was less than a hundred feet, it was long enough that it would take her hours to cross. A night patrol sitting in the trees could easily cover that distance with night-vision goggles.

Which was why she was crossing it in daylight.

In spite of her relatively glacial pace, she reached the base of the cliff with hours to go before full dark. The camouflage netting would be useless climbing the cliff in daylight, and she'd be harder to see in the dark even if the patrols had night-vision given the green colors of her BDUs. So instead of starting immediately, she settled down and allowed herself to doze lightly. She knew she didn't snore, and early offworld training with the Colonel-not to mention painful whacks to the back of the head-had reduced her tendency to move in her sleep. It was a risk, but better now than later when they would be looking harder. It also would be the height of stupidity to climb tired. It would be incredibly ironic to survive the physically exhausting three hundred foot free-climb only to walk straight into the nearest night patrol because her sleep deprived brain couldn't tell friend from foe.

Three hours later she was wakened by the vibrating of the watch pinned securely against the flesh of her breast by the fabric of her sports bra. Hard-won experience held her motionless as she quickly cataloged the situation. Resisting the urge to squirm as the watch continued to vibrate, she listened carefully for tell-tale noises that might indicate a patrol. Hearing nothing but the normal night-time sounds, she was confident nothing had moved near her in the last few minutes.

A slow hand turned off the watch, then she started to climb.

The color of the netting would not have benefited her during the day, but the camouflage pattern and the draping effect would break up the shape of her body in NVG even better than her BDU's. The last thing she needed was an almost solid pattern of a human body silhouetted against the light colored rock. She worked patiently, testing every handhold before committing her weight, shifting smoothly and as slowly as she dared. Four inches, six. There were times she never made that much of a difference. A moving shadow would catch the eye far quicker than a shape.

Hours passed.

The moon rose, and she paused her upward motion. She took the time to swallow half a power bar, then used the convenient bulge of the rock face to rest her weight. She resumed her pace when the shadows cast by the moon shifted enough to obscure her even further. About halfway up, she took the chance to relieve her bladder, using a hiking cup for women to direct the stream against the rock face where it was broken up and scattered, the acrid smell hanging in her own nostrils, but far enough from base or top not to give away her position. The waterproof bag she had sewn for it was a lot less noisy than the plastic storage bag the appliance had originally came in.

Her fingers cramped, then grew numb. Her muscles ached, then burned. Her thighs and calves shook from the strain of holding her position and her shoulders screamed. She did what she could to relieve the pressure, but each shift caused only momentary relief. The night became hazed with pain and only the fact that she knew it could be worse, that she couldn't risk the shame of capture kept her from rushing forward. She would show them.

She was long past the thought of anger for herself. She had had to swallow her pride in the interest of survival too many times for that to be a reliable source of strength. Oddly enough it was the thought of her CO that helped keep her going. Not only because she couldn't face the thought of failing him when he was somewhere out there confident she was going to do something kick-ass spectacular. But because she had seen the expressions on the surrounding faces when he had wished her luck. The slightly derisive looks as they gave him a once over, then dismissed him as a threat. All because they assumed he was a willing party to sucking up to the General's daughter.

She remembered him begging in the cold, a man who had never begged to the enemy, begging her to leave him to die alone and far from home so that she could live. She remembered his tattered grin as he taunted one Jaffa after another into a painful beating just so they would focus on him and not his team. She remembered the mistakes, the courage, the gods bedamned honor of the man. Their cowardly, unspoken assumptions spit on an officer they should be crawling to serve, not eying with hidden smirks and baseless judgment.

They dared?

She would show them all, if only to show them what his pride in her was worth.


	3. Chapter 3

So much for the quiet option.

She was going to have to blow the shit out of everything.

Her annoyed glare wandered between the jeep and the men being staked out like offerings to Ra. At least the jeep had the virtue of being useful. Her eyes narrowed as she weighed the pros and volatility of jellied gasoline. She eyed the dry grass around the bare feet of the POWs.

Maybe not.

Things had been so simple. Get in. Get out. Saunter over the finish line before fifty percent of the participants even breached the perimeter. All shot to hell because of that jeep. Another six hours tops and she would have been gone. Back to the land of pizza and beer and big-assed bottles of bug repellent. She was so screwed. The mission brief had declared that combatants were not to assist other combatants. Except somehow she had a feeling that if she wandered home with the prize someone was going to remember that these were POWs, not combatants, and oh gosh, the General's daughter left a man behind.

She resisted the urge to snarl.

On the other hand, if she rescued them she was going to get tagged with blowing the mission and disobeying orders and nary a POW would be in sight. Nope, combatants all, Major. Can't you read?

Damned if she did...damned if she shot them all.

Maybe she could blame PMS.

The POWs had been captured early morning and the jeep had delivered them, then returned the patrol to the bushes. The reminder that the children were on their way had reminded the adults to pay attention. Still, she found it relatively easy if hard on the nerves to spend the day scouting the camp. She simply followed the sun. It didn't guarantee success, but keeping it at her back relative to the sentry most likely to spot her, helped reduce the chances of them spotting her. That's what she told herself anyway. Of course, that only worked if she was right about where they were, where they were looking, and if she was damn lucky.

Still, by the time the late afternoon sun was threatening her timetable, she was done rolling under canvas walls and had collected everything she needed. No weapons unfortunately, but the medical tent had coughed up a lovely tranquilizer. Demented Weasel Number One had made sure she and Daniel had both been capable of crafting any number of primitive weapons. She had gotten extremely motivated to hit the target once he started holding her chocolate bars hostage. Actually, Demented Weasel Number Two had seemed a bit disconcerted at how motivated she had seemed. Daniel had snickered and warned him never to stand between a Tau'ri female and her chocolate-especially certain days of the month.

The Jaffa had just nodded and looked at her oddly.

Who was she to argue if it meant they gave her chocolate?

She was about to go for the cannister when she noticed the wooden bars of a prisoner pit about twenty feet from the target. She contemplated it narrowly. There were no sounds from within, but if it was supposed to be for the POWs, why were the sunburnt darlings staked out on the other side of the camp? The ground around it was flat and bare and the camouflage netting wasn't going to do her a damn bit of good with it. It occurred to her to wonder why the sentries had a better line of sight to the pit than the tent holding the cannister. Of course, there was guard inside the tent, but still...

Momma said there'd be days like this.

The guard on the tent had just rotated. If she was correct, she only had a window of two hours before his relief showed up. She flipped through her options, then sighed. Too late for second thoughts now. Wriggling to the edge of the tent, she worked the end of her field periscope and blow gun under the tent wall. One handmade dart later, the guard was on the ground. In a flash she was inside the tent and rifling the contents. The cannister was small and fit easily into a cargo pocket. The guard was tied and gagged and stuffed under a cot. With any luck, if anyone popped a head inside, they'd just think he went for a leak. If nothing else, they might waste five minutes looking for him.

The guard was armed with paint pellets and a trank pistol. Only six darts, but it would do. She had cut a few corners to create her blowgun and she didn't trust the accuracy over twenty feet. With the increased range of the pistol, things were looking up. Fifteen minutes later the cannister was buried in the woods with her pack and she was heading for the known sentries with line of sight on the prisoner pit. It was tight, extremely tight considering that the posts were across the camp from each other. The first sentry went down quietly, but the second must have seen the first fall. He had a hand on his radio by the time the dart from the pistol dropped him. She let out a sigh as he passed out and the rest of the camp stayed silent. Liberating them of BDUs and boots, she glanced at her watch and cursed.

The man in the pit looked at her with wide eyes as she aimed the dart gun in his face and motioned him to climb out and follow her. The closest sentries were down, but she was grateful he slithered along behind her quietly. Dragging 180lbs of dead weight would have put her behind schedule. Hopefully, he actually was the pilot and not a ringer wearing his tags. Even so, she couldn't take the chance. Once they got to where she had buried her pack, he had a split second to blink with startled surprise at the dart buried in his shoulder before he collapsed. She bound and gagged him as well, then grabbed the pack she had borrowed from the first guard to store the sentries' clothes and moved as quickly as she could to the other end of the camp.

By the time she had more carefully taken out the sentries nearest the POWs, she had five minutes before the sentries were due to check in with each other. Five minutes and all hell would break loose. Aside from the two sentries nearest the POWs, there were at least six others she knew about and three possibles she hadn't been able to confirm. Not to mention the fact that the foot patrols returned at random intervals.

She snuck around the perimeter until she was as close to the POWs as she dared to get. Staring at her watch, she counted down the seconds. _Three._ She hated relying on automation, but without her team, she had to make sacrifices. _Two._ Luckily, kitchen supplies had so many alternate uses. _One._

Show-time.

The POWs jerked against their bonds in surprise as the sound of an alarm clock broke the stillness of the camp. Before they could do more than peer toward the sound in confusion, several sharp explosions vibrated in sequence and multi-colored smoke started billowing along the left hand perimeter of the camp. Another alarm and the right side joined its brother. Ignoring the yelling by the sentries she dashed up to the nearest POW and slashed the rope binding his wrists to the pole. Ignoring his startled look she dropped the pack at his feet.

"Clothes. Go that way,"she snapped out as she indicated the direction opposite the way she intended to go.

The rest of the POWs were staring at her as she cut each of their hands free in turn, leaving them to untie their feet and buy herself time to get out of reach. She drove the knife into the post holding the last POW.

"If you follow me, I'll shoot you," she promised.

Then she pulled the gas mask she had liberated from one of the tents over her head just in time as the last alarm clock fired and the resulting explosions threw liters of a non-toxic but extremely irritating gas into the air. Coughing and hacking could be heard from the sentries. She didn't bother to see if the POWs followed orders. Safe behind her gas mask she dove straight into the cloud of noxious fumes and ran unmolested through the center of the camp.

* * *

The officers and non-comms lounging around the Command post laughed as they updated the Situation Board and joked among themselves as they discussed the chances of various participants. Daniel was intrigued to note that after losing her, no one had mentioned Sam.

Jack was sitting at a nearby picnic table and watching the other officers with a mildly interested look on his face. Every so often, one of them would glance over at Jack with a slight frown, but no one said anything and Daniel wasn't sure if it was a commentary about Jack or the fact he had placed his wager on Major Carter to be back by midnight tonight, mission accomplished. Considering most of the participants weren't expected to attempt an attack on the camp until tomorrow, it was an ambitious bet.

Teal'c had simply agreed with Jack and then proceeded to ignore the others with a disconcerting thoroughness.

"Should we be gathering like this?" Daniel asked quietly dropping onto the bench beside Jack.

"I think they know we work together, Daniel."

Daniel rolled his eyes and lowered his voice. "Well, aren't we supposed to be mingling?"

Jack smiled slightly and Daniel noted the gleam in his eye with a feeling of trepidation. Something was amusing the CO of SG-1 and he doubted it was the lukewarm welcome they had gotten so far.

"We're an anomaly, Daniel. Don't worry." The smile touching Jack's lips grew slightly with evil intent."They'll come to us once Major Carter gets back with the goods."

"Er...what if she doesn't?"

Jack just tilted his head and regarded Daniel with a look of surprise. Daniel winced. "Right. Dumb question. What...?"

Before he could continue, several sharp retorts echoed from the direction of the camp. Daniel decided it was probably not a good thing that he could identify that these were not the result of weapons' fire. The Command Post was located on the south side of the camp, at the same elevation. It wasn't hard to see the billows of white and yellow smoke rising from the camp.

More explosions.

Teal'c turned to look at his friends,"I believe they have tried Major Carter's patience."

Daniel flinched as several more explosions sounded, this time releasing a vile green smoke that made him queasy just looking at it. Jack's eyebrows had both lifted in fascination and the smile on his face was part vindication, part worry.

"Uh, Jack?" Daniel said finally, as officers flew in all directions."I think we're going to need chocolate."

Jack didn't argue. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and located a ten dollar bill. Daniel fingered it thoughtfully, then flinched as a booming explosion rocked the atmosphere, the vibrations strong enough that Daniel could feel it through the rock under his feet.

Teal'c handed over a twenty.


	4. Chapter 4

Her pilot was being a pain in the ass.

On purpose.

At least it had better be on purpose. She would hate to think any soldier in the US military could make the number of mistakes he was making by accident. Aside from general idiocy, he'd left honking big footprints in the softest earth he could find, bulled his way through bushes a rabbit would avoid, nearly fallen into quicksand, and left a blazing trail a blind man could follow. Each time she cursed at him he just gave her a wounded, wide-eyed look that seem to ask "What? I'm just a pilot". Which would have been fine if he was a civilian, but he was supposed to be an _Air Force _POW.

It was insulting, damn it.

The gleam of amusement in his eyes when she threatened to shoot him finally pushed her over the edge. Cutting a length of rope she tied the impromptu leash through the bonds on his wrists and started to run. It was probably evil of her to smile when she heard his grunt as he figured out what she planned to do, but hey-if he couldn't sneak, what was a girl to do? Points to the male ego though, he kept up with her. She wasn't pulling any punches either. It was a down-to-the-wire, 'we got four hours to get to the Gate and there are Jaffa behind us' pace. It wasn't the exit strategy she would have preferred to use, but six years with SG-1 had taught her to assume the worst and plan accordingly.

Twice they barely avoided foot patrols. The first, she took out easily with her blowgun. They were noisy and careless. Sneaky was clearly not in their normal job description. Her pilot simply lay beside her quietly and watched with interest as she dropped them. She still didn't trust him though. Which was unfortunate, because she could already start to feel the effects of sleep deprivation. Another day of this and she'd start droning until she walked off a cliff.

Fumble-footed novice or ringer she couldn't take him with her while she staked out their back-trail. In the end, she tied him to a tree. He wasn't happy about it, but it let her take care of some of their pursuers. About an hour back, she found a pair who were hell of sneaky. Luckily, she was sneakier. Helping herself to their darts and their MREs she reclaimed her pilot and headed for the hills. Literally. It would be harder on the knees, going down that way, but at least her pain-in-the-ass couldn't leave any more footprints.

Unfortunately, he could do worse.

Halfway to ground level, she heard a sprawling crash and the rope was almost jerked from her hands. Spinning around, she stared in disbelief. The grade was rocky, but it was gentle. The main reason this had not been her original exit route was that it added 6 hours to the trip and there was less cover. Novice or no, the only way he could have fallen like that was if he had tripped over non-existent shoelaces. He grimaced at the incredulous expression on her face.

"I think it's broken," he said quietly.

For a moment she thought he was serious. Then reality hit and three strides had her standing beside him. Yanking his pant leg up, she already knew what she would see even before the masking tape with the words "broken ankle" appeared taped to the cuff. A reflexive burst of anger for the complication he represented exploded, then died. She doubted he had much control over his part in the scenario - and if he did, he wasn't going out of his way to complicate her life more than he had to.

But the scenario sucked. That it was realistic was not the problem. Offworld, she would have used a travois or taped it and shot him full of painkillers and had him run on the splint. The first wouldn't be a problem in this sort of terrain, and they were already leaving tracks. Hell, given the Jaffa sense of smell, when SG-1 went to ground, they really had to go to ground. She'd seen the odd look on her prisoner's face when she'd pulled the body brush and scentless wipes from her pack the last time they had rested. The SGC had spent a lot of time and money developing those wipes, and she hadn't even realized herself how ingrained the habit was, removing sweat and betraying skin flakes before they could mark her trail.

On the other hand, her scent had not betrayed her when she'd gone hunting, so who was she to argue with success?

Taping his ankle only made sense in hostile terrain. Using a teammate as a crutch, both soldiers kept their hands and weapons free, and it wasn't any slower than a stretcher would be-and definitely easier to manage in the bush. The problem was they weren't offworld. Grimly she considered the fact that this exercise was all about perception. It hadn't started out personal, but she was coming back to HQ with the prisoner as well as the mission objective. People were going to be taking a damn close look at what she was doing once she got back.

Fact was, her training showed.

Half her fellow trainees had never done any serious escape and evade. The other half didn't have her experience. As much as she was enjoying twisting a few tails, it wasn't because she was worried about how her team or the SGC would see her. Although, she kind of liked the idea of carrying the standard so to speak. She almost snorted. Who knew? Major Carter could be as gung-ho as the next guy. Which led back to the original problem.

These guys-especially the Rangers-would be working with female soldiers in the future. Some of them were potential SGC recruits. Anything she did now was going to reflect on how they perceived females in the future and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. No more than she could change the fact she was a General's daughter. She HAD to be better, because if she didn't prove she could have done everything a man could have done, there were going to be a good percentage who assumed it was because she could not. The fact that it might not be the best choice wasn't the point.

Ironically, the fact the Jaffa and the SGC saw a soldier first, was now the reason she had to consider the fact she was a woman. But she had learned something. It didn't hurt any longer. And it no longer made her wonder about herself. No matter what she did here, nothing was going to affect how the SGC or SG-1 saw her. Anything she did now, she did for the military and for her fellow soldiers, not herself. Which, when she thought about it, was what being an officer was all about.

It still sucked.

An involuntary grin crossed her face at that decidedly O'Neillesque inner comment and she ignored the frown on her companion's face as she shook a prescription level amount of Ibuprophen into her hand and tossed them back. He might have the imaginary broken leg, but she was the one who was going to need the painkillers. It was going to be a long walk.

The problem was balance. She had the height, but her shoulders were not as wide as Teal'c's or even Daniel's. Reconfiguring her pack would allow her to brace his weight across the top of it and distribute some of it to her hips. Luckily, he was built like most pilots. Rangy. He was well muscled though. At a guess, he hit somewhere between 170 and 180.

She didn't bother to explain. The incredulous look on his face as she pulled him to his feet said it all. He grunted when she dug her shoulder into his stomach, but he cooperated, and the surprised exhale when she didn't drop him almost had her smiling. Almost. Standing still was the easy part.

The next few hours were a nightmare. Every muscle in her body burned and her spine was definitely complaining. The Colonel was going to have a few pithy remarks about non-combat stress and risk to Air Force personnel. Of course, then he'd take pictures and gloat whenever the Marines paused to look at the bulletin board.

It wasn't a picnic for her passenger either, but he never said a word. He also did his best not to knock her over, so for that she was grateful. She'd also warned him to keep an eye out for patrols and she kept close to the trees to foil any snipers. She didn't really care if they could see her, as long as they couldn't shoot her. Although not seeing was a good thing too. She wasn't in the mood to run.

It would have been nice to be able to use the time to think. There was still that little quirk in the Naquadah reactor she wanted to look at. Unfortunately, she had learned a long time ago that when she did that sort of thing in the field, she tended to walk into things. It wasn't so bad if she was trailing someone - and if it became necessary, the Colonel had learned to keep her from walking over cliffs and into trees. But he'd whacked her over the head more than a few times for doing it when it wasn't necessary, and now she found that with only her own senses to keep her safe, she couldn't do it.

Which kept her from walking into the patrol.

Her passenger had stiffened and grabbed her shoulder, but she had already seen them. Actually, she had drifted into the shadow of a tree and stopped almost a minute before, so she had probably heard them first. She gazed longingly at the Jeep. Off-road vehicle or not, it was a sign that the road wasn't far away and she wanted that Jeep more than she wanted a good night's sleep or a six month supply of weapon's grade Naquadah.

Although, on reflection, she'd trade the sleep before the Naquadah.

Even more than the Jeep, their attitude of casual unconcern made her want to shoot them just on general principal. Worse, she knew she could take them. If her passenger had been Daniel, she would have. On the other hand, she could have trusted Daniel enough to leave him here to watch her back and guard the canister. Her prisoner?

Not so much.

She couldn't risk it. One mistake, an extra guard she didn't see, or a missed shot, and the mission objective would be put at risk. Nor was she prepared to put her passenger in a position to be abandoned all for the sake of an extra hour or two of physical discomfort. She could almost taste his surprise when she didn't move, and on any other day she would have laughed at his assumption that she was good enough to consider it. Then again, he probably wanted that Jeep too.

Twenty minutes later the patrol moved out. It took her a moment to unlock frozen joints, and her body was none to pleased with her. Luckily, home was just around the corner. Figuratively speaking. They had to duck into the trees two more times to avoid patrols on the road, but that was it. No helicopters, no roving armies, no screaming cannibals looking to sacrifice to the glowing eyed gods. All in all, a day at the beach.

She almost jogged the last hundred yards. She could have done it, but decided that falling on her face might just spoil the effect. She settled for a lazy stroll that her body approved of heartily. It wasn't the easiest thing to do while carrying a body slung over one's shoulders, but hey, who said SG-1 ever did easy?

The colonel just rolled his eyes as she sauntered up to him. Ignoring the people turning around to look at her, she looked at her CO and grinned.

He sighed, then tilted his head. "Carter?"

Translation: You okay?

"Hey, Sir."

Answer: I'm fine. Look what I did.

He snorted. Then ran an eye over her passenger. That look needed no translation.

In spite of her exhaustion, she wanted to laugh. She was alive, and back with her team, and all was right with the world.

"He followed me home, Sir. Can I keep him?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Well, well..."said an amused voice behind him." Look what the cat dragged in."

Lt. Mike Graham vaulted into a sitting position on the picnic table and grinned. Before Nick could escape, hands closed around his shoulders and pinned him in place.

"I heard the Captain got his ass hauled in by some geek from NORAD,"Master Sergeant Clay O'Conner said mournfully, hands squeezing gently.

Mike shook his head sadly,"What is this world coming to?"

Nick folded his arms across his chest."You been listening to gossip again, Mike?"

A thud heralded the arrival of Major Keats as the right half of a pair of size fourteen combat boots landed on the seat beside Nick, square in the middle of his escape route.

"You'd think he'd learn, wouldn't you?" Keats peered at Nick. "Thought you'd still be in the infirmary, not running around playing POW. You do something to annoy the nurses?"

Nick smirked and flexed his leg. O'Conner whistled softly while Graham and Keats eyed his left knee soberly.

"Thought you were headed for a desk for sure,"Mike said quietly.

Nick shrugged,"Got lucky. They had a new treatment they wanted to try. I figured I had nothing to lose." He didn't admit that before the specialists from Washington had asked him to participate in their experimental program, he had been headed for a cane and a medical discharge. Frankly, he didn't want to think about it.

"So which one is your geek, Dunbar? We've got a training and evaluation exercise from Eastman and Carter is invited to the party."

Nick raised an eyebrow and tipped his head toward the geek in question and the three very odd men attached to her side.

"The blond,"he said with sadistic pleasure.

There was dead silence, then a cough from Mike.

"Begging the Captain's pardon, but perhaps it was his head that got knocked by that bullet, not his knee,"Graham replied mildly.

"The blond has tits, Captain."

Keats shot O'Conner a disgusted look,"Thank-you for pointing that out, Sergeant. I'm sure the rest of us missed that fact."

O'Conner frowned,"I'm just saying."

"Say it more respectfully next time. She outranks you."

"She's a better shot too,"Nick added. "With a pistol and homemade blow-gun."

That got their attention.

"Gossip neglected to mention that part,"Keats said, squinting at the other group thoughtfully.

"What else did gossip have to say on the subject?"Nick asked, curious.

Keats glanced at Graham who was peering across the command post. Graham blinked when he realized he was the center of interest.

"Just said you got hauled back by a geek. Overheard one of the brass talking about it. Thought the geek's name was Sam,though." He grinned. "Guess that's short for Samantha, huh?"

"You're a freaking genius, Graham,"Nick said dryly.

Graham smirked,"So which one of the hotshots blew up the camp? Frank says he got a couple real good pictures of our little bush bunnies heading for home in their underwear before the smoke got too bad. The Doc was muttering about poison ivy and sunburn last I heard."

Nick tilted his head back toward the four already under surveillance. The smirk slid off Graham's face double-time.

"Christ, Dunbar,"Keats said slowly,"we felt that explosion back at the base."

"She got the microfilm too."

This time, the looks the other three turned on his newly favorite geek were assessing.

"Time to complete?"Keats directed at Graham.

Mike glanced at his watch obediently. "43 hours, 22 minutes."

O'Conner frowned intently. He glanced at Nick."She blew the camp and let loose the POWs as a distraction?"

Nick shrugged."She didn't say."

O'Conner nodded slowly, then glanced at Keats oddly. Keats just shrugged.

Nick watched the interplay with foreboding."What?"

"She's tired and she knows you,"Keats said, rubbing his forehead, then considered the group across the compound with a slightly jaundiced eye.

"Oh hell..."Nick said with disgust.

Graham grinned weakly. "You're Dead Duck One. I'm Two."

"I'm tired,"Nick snapped."And hungry."

O'Conner pulled a protein bar from his front pocket and offered it meekly. Nick grabbed it and looked balefully at Keats. "I haven't had a shower in three days."

Keats shrugged."So sit downwind. Eastman said full training. That's what she's gonna get."He glanced at O'Conner."Give Mendez a heads up on her possible background."

"This is a bad idea, Major,"Nick said, suddenly absolutely certain and not sure why.

Graham hopped to his feet and pulled Nick up with a sympathetic grin,"Come on, Daffy. Maybe she'll give you her phone number before we get killed."


	6. Chapter 6

Sam palmed a dose of painkillers and gratefully washed them down with a bottle of cold water Daniel had acquired from somewhere. The bottle wept with condensation and she held it to her face with a sigh and cursed her fair complexion. Her sunglasses had gotten broken somewhere in the past twenty-four hours and her eyes ached behind the soothing darkness provided by the Colonel's borrowed custom lenses.

Once they got back to the base, she was ordering a pair just like them.

Her adrenal glands had surrendered the field and unconsciousness hovered just on the edge of her awareness. Every muscle felt pulled, twisted, and shaky. In fact, she had the lowering suspicion if she tried to stand her knees were going to give out. If the amused look the Colonel was giving her was anything to go by, her last sentence had not been as coherent as she could have wished.

"You operational, Carter?"

The snap in the unfamiliar voice jerked her head up by reflex and she squinted at the figure fading in and out of focus. She stared doubtfully at the tabs on his shoulder. Captain? She squinted again. No...there were two of them. The one on the left was a Major.

Operational?

Who was he kidding? She hadn't had any sleep for over 52 hours, not to mention carting an extra 170 lbs over hill and dale. By her count, she was legally impaired.

"Not if you expect me to shoot anything," she replied bluntly. "Or walk," she added honestly. "Or blow anything up." She ignored the odd look the Captain on the left was giving her. Hey! The Captain was her pilot. She had wondered where he had disappeared to. She gave a half-hearted wave, ignoring the sudden coughing coming from Daniel's direction.

"Saving the world from the forces of darkness would be difficult too, Sir," she admitted.

That should cover all contingencies. She frowned when he sighed and started to tip sideways. What the hell? Majors weren't supposed to do that. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and the world righted itself. She blinked. Oh.

Oops.

"Thanks, Sir."

"Anytime, Major," Colonel O'Neill replied gravely.

She would have believed him if his brown eyes hadn't been dancing evilly.

"What are you up to?" she asked accusingly.

His eyes widened momentarily and she heard a muffled sound behind her that sounded a lot like Teal'c. Which was not very polite of him since he knew the Colonel at least as well as she did and anyone could see he had gerbils doing laps inside the old noggin. The major was giving her a resigned look which she returned owlishly. Finally he muttered something and shook his head.

"You can sleep on the plane," the major said.

Sam nodded obediently. Then waited for the major to tell her where the plane was located. And where it was going. And what they were going to do when they got there. And...

"We go wheels up in an hour, Carter," the major said dryly. "You might like to pack."

Right.

She stared at her feet which suddenly seemed a long way down. She sighed and started to lean forward only to stop with relief when the Colonel placed a hand on her shoulder. She heard him say something to Daniel, then sagged obediently when he squeezed her shoulder and told her to take a nap.

Orders were orders, after all.

* * *

Nick watched with disbelief - and not a little envy - as his would-be savior collapsed against Colonel O'Neill's shoulder and passed out. On command. Son-of-a-...

The one called Daniel was hell for leather and halfway to the Officer's Quarters. Sergeant Murray had disappeared in the direction of the Mess. The rest of them stood around like idiots and watched Carter sleep. Colonel O'Neill eyed Major Keats assessingly and Nick had the lowering feeling the man was laughing at them. Although Nick was more concerned with sleep. He would have traded half a dozen painkillers at the right time for the nerve to imitate Carter.

Excepting the part about O'Neill's shoulder, of course.

He yawned and cautiously shifted his weight off his knee, still amazed at the miracle the docs had cooked up for him. Healed or not, however, he had just spent two days in a hole and several hours with Carter's arm looped around his knee and using it for leverage. It ached almost as much as his head. Maybe Mike would sit still long enough for Nick to borrow his shoulder...

A slight motion of the Colonel's hand and something was flying through the air. Keats caught it reflexively, then cursed while O'Neill flashed a shit-eating grin bright enough to land transport planes. Nick squinted at the pill bottle and snorted. Christ. No wonder Carter was halfway to Mars. She'd be unconscious for a good six hours no matter what the brass might have had planned for her.

Colonel Hotshot had just made damn sure of it.

The Major was good people, but he had Hell's own temper when his schedules got rearranged. He was not going to be thrilled that his plans just got set back several hours while Carter sweat the narcotics from her system. Nick was wistfully contemplating six to eight hours of uninterrupted sleep when Daniel came flying back wearing a field pack and carrying a sack and a rifle. Sergeant Murray was not far behind him carrying a large brown paper bag. Nick blinked. The man did know there was food on the plane...right?

O'Neill intercepted the rifle and made sure it was unloaded. He laid it on the table and contemplated the sleeping woman thoughtfully. He squeezed her shoulder, then shook her experimentally when nothing happened. Keats was watching with crossed arms and sour amusement. O'Neill sighed, then motioned Daniel to stand next to Carter.

"Incoming!" O'Neill bellowed." On your feet, Carter!"

Half the soldiers on the command post snapped to while the other half ducked. Carter popped up like a Jack-in-the-Box, then wobbled once before Daniel and O'Neill each grabbed an arm.

"Your plane is here, Carter. Get changed. You have five minutes," O'Neill snapped.

She nodded drunkenly." Yes, Sir."

Nick watched with astonishment as her hand closed around the sack Daniel shoved against her fingers and she didn't even question the order. O'Neill pulled her away from the table, then the three men formed an open-sided square around her and turned their backs to her. Hidden behind her teammates, Carter stripped down to skin and donned fresh clothes before Nick had time to feel like a pervert. With her dirty clothes shoved into the sack, the men broke formation and Murray handed her a sandwich as she sat down.

Daniel grabbed her feet and stripped off her boots. He quickly checked her feet, ran an antiseptic wipe across them, slapped moleskin on a couple blisters and doused them in Gold Bond. Murray pressed her with sandwiches while the Colonel ran through the short version of the bogus mission profile Keats had given them. In theory, with their TACP reassigned, she was the closest thing they had and they were on a mission to extract a team from a mission gone sideways.

Carter never blinked, just absorbed what was being said, swallowed the food Murray put in her hand, and ignored whatever Daniel was doing to her feet. When her boots were back on, Murray packed the rest of the food into her field pack - including two chocolate bars that Nick knew for damn sure were not standard issue. O'Neill pulled her upright and Daniel handed her the rifle. Her hand closed over it automatically, then she snapped her head around to stare at it.

"What is this?" she asked blankly.

O'Neill rolled his eyes." That is a rifle, Carter."

"From what century?" she demanded.

All three men looked at her for a moment, then Daniel snickered.

O'Neill raised an eyebrow." I carried one of those for years, Carter."

"Yes, Sir,"she said dubiously."Did you hit anything with it, Sir?"

O'Neill stared at her blankly, then smiled slowly."I am soooo going to enjoy reminding you about this conversation, Carter. Now pay attention. You are too drugged for live ammo. Repeat after me..."he tucked the clips into her field pack," the clips stay in the pack."

"The clips stay in the pack," she repeated obediently. Then she pouted." Can't I have my P-90?"

O'Neill's lips quivered and he drew a slow breath.

Carter turned to look at Daniel." Where's yours? Can I borrow it?"

Daniel grinned," Sorry, Sam. I didn't bring it. "

Carter grimaced and mumbled something that sounded like 'damn antiques'.

"Five minutes to wheels up, Carter,"O'Neill managed, his voice suspiciously tight.

Carter sighed heavily and slung her rifle with absentminded skill. O'Neill helped her with her pack and when he slapped her on the back, she started to trudge in the direction of the tarmac. Given that Nick was 90 certain she wasn't actually conscious, her sense of direction was not half bad. She only wobbled twice and a quick hand under her elbow from Murray kept her upright. O'Neill paced along on her off side and Daniel dogged all three carrying her sack of dirty clothes.

It wasn't until they were getting her settled with what Nick thought was excessive care, that he understood they might not be babying the girl in the group. For all her ease with a rifle, she fumbled uncertainly when it came time to secure the weapon. O'Neill had moved to stow her pack and the enlisted man next to her reached out impatiently and grabbed her rifle. The meaty thud as the rigid knuckles of her left hand met Murray's palm a bare inch from the idiot's larynx left Private Jenkins shocked, but still alive.

The disgusted look Murray gave Jenkins had him sinking into his seat and staring at the toes of his boots. Keats was muttering again and all in all, Nick was beginning to think Carter's coming confrontation with Mendez might actually be somewhat amusing. Exhausting, uncomfortable, and itchy - but potentially amusing. The man's whole team had been acting strangely the last few weeks, not to mention they were getting arrogant enough to rub even Mike the wrong way. Keats would not cry any crocodile tears if Carter took Mendez down a peg or two.

Still, he watched with envy as O'Neill touched her shoulder and ordered her to sleep. Not sixty seconds later the woman was out like a light. Nick squirmed in his seat trying to get comfortable. Unfortunately, he knew from experience that he did not sleep well on airplanes. Damn it. He was still glaring at Carter's unconscious face when O'Neill paused at the hatch and leaned back to look at the Major.

"Oh Keats...I'd be careful how I woke her up."

O'Neill's grin was sheer evil.

"She bites."


	7. Chapter 7

Captured.

Her half-conscious brain sluggishly identified the smell of mud and blood just as she felt the tugging as hands fumbled with the buttons on her BDUs. Old instincts shouted a warning and she unleashed explosively. She heard a scream of masculine pain as she sank her teeth into something and-courtesy of Teal'c-slammed feet into an unseen stomach and sent someone flying over her head. Snarling a warning more than one Jaffa had learned to respect she staggered to her feet and crouched tensely.

The unknown man was still cursing off to her right and she squinted and blinked, clearing crusted eyes. Memory swam hazily and she had a brief recollection of screaming engines and the slap of black night as Keats pushed her out of the plane. She remembered terror as she fell blind, and the jerk of her parachute. She remembered a moment of sour appreciation for all the body-breaking training of the past few weeks as NVG-enhanced trees reached up and pulled her out of the sky.

"Will you shut up,"she snapped at the man still cursing at her.

"Son-of-a bitch!"he said without imagination as he gingerly examined his arm for damage.

She glared at him unsympathetically. Served the bastard right. At least Colonel O'Neill had been going for her shoulder. It had been his bad luck to miss. This moron hadn't even introduced himself.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?"she demanded.

The man sneered."You weren't waking up. I was _planning..._"he said with exaggerated sarcasm,"...on looking for internal injuries."

Old memories curled her upper lip for a moment. The Colonel had never asked where she had earned that vicious little reflex. Actually, she suspected he'd thought she'd need it. But then, he'd never asked where she had learned to pick locks either. Carter had liked the thought of him imagining his proper little scientist with a misspent youth. Better than admitting she had learned in self-defense after missing one too many morning roll calls at the Academy after being ambushed in her bunk and locked in a supply closet. McMaster, the little prick, had just claimed he was training her to be vigilant.

There hadn't been a lock she couldn't pick by the end of that miserable life experience.

The second man moved into the dim light seeping through the wooden bars over their heads and she recognized her pilot. He looked a little banged up, but operational. Same with the idiot across the pit.

"What's the situation?" she asked, looking around their prison speculatively.

"Gee Carter, I thought that would have been self-explainatory,"the man she had bitten responded.

Her pilot rolled his eyes and sighed. "Ignore him. We do"

The other man sneered again and turned his back on them. For a moment, something about that action captured her attention, but she was tired and she had more immediate problems to worry about. Namely, the pit. And presumably, armed guards. Her vision was still fading alarmingly at the edges and her conscious state seemed a bit more precarious than she would have liked. She didn't like the way her head spun and the frown on her pilot's face wasn't making her feel any better.

Good show, Carter.

Why don't you just faint while you're at it?

Shifting her weight to reduce the chances of falling over unexpectedly, she narrowed her eyes at the pilot.

"The plane was shot down,"he said hastily. "We bailed and I woke up here." He grimaced. "My night vision went out when I hit the trees and I landed a bit harder than was wise."

She scanned his body reflexively, looking for damage. "Can you run?"

He paused and she was aware of an odd silence from the man behind her. Then he nodded. Before she could wonder at the surprise, he held out his hand.

"Captain Nick Dunbar, at your service."

Startled, she shook his hand, momentarily warmed by the friendly gesture. Dunbar jerked his chin toward the other man. "That's Lt. Mike Grisholm."

A grunt from behind her did not encourage a response.

"We alone here?"she asked, deliberately vague.

From the look in his eyes, he knew what she was asking. Where was the rest of the team? He shrugged. "I think so. I was unconscious when they brought me in."

Sam tried to remember her South American politics, but frankly, she had never paid much attention. She'd been in the Gulf when she was flying and Washington had had too many pitfalls for her to pay much attention to anything beyond the deadly little parties DC liked to throw. She read the paper when she could stomach it so she could respond to non-SGC personnel with something other than blank silence. Mostly, it just pissed her off. The SGC was bleeding and dying trying to keep this planet in one piece and the people left behind seemed determined to send it all to hell.

"Who's they, Dunbar"she asked too politely, beginning to sympathize with the Colonel's impatience with long winded explanations.

Dunbar frowned at her again, this time clearly for her ignorance. She ignored him and he shrugged finally. "Mendez, I think. Calls himself a freedom fighter, but mostly sells whatever he can to the highest bidder. Hates Americans,"he added.

As if that were a surprise.

Dunbar surprised her by grinning. "You must have given him a bit of trouble. I saw a couple of his men when you were brought in and they were looking a little bruised around the edges."

"Were they alive?" she asked bluntly.

Dunbar lost his smile at her flat tone. "Yes."

Sam shrugged. "Then all I did was piss them off."

Dunbar backed off and she winced internally. He had just been trying to bond. Still, he needed the warning. She couldn't afford for him to get cozy. She could have trusted anyone from the SGC not to overreact when what was coming went down. Dunbar would escalate things if he gave them a weapon to use. She was not going to be pleased if things got worse than they had to be because Mendez and his goons could amuse themselves by using her to torture Dunbar.

Grisholm, at least, was safe on that score.

Before she could ask anything else, the sound of booted feet above warned them the day was about to begin.

She didn't resist when they hauled her out of the pit. Six men with guns backed up the four doing the hauling. Her hands were left unbound and for a moment she couldn't believe they were that stupid. Then she caught the gleam of cruel excitement in their eyes and she realized they were waiting for her to try something. Declining to give them the pleasure, she kept her head down and exaggerated her debility.

Unfortunately, she didn't have to work hard at it.

She really wasn't looking forward to this. She would have to remind the Colonel next time she saw him that this had not been part of the plan. A vacation, he'd said. A little recon R&R hunting rumors of a rogue NID off-the-books project. A chance to get a little training on. If she was excruciatingly precise about it, she had looked forward to filling in some of the gaps in her experience. So far, none of what she'd been taught was worth shit offworld, but she knew there had to be something waiting just around the corner to bite her on the ass.

She just knew it.

There had to be something she was missing. She was in no way prepared to take over for Colonel O'Neill. She remembered what he had been like eight years ago. In spite of everything she had experienced, she wasn't half that capable. Hell, she wasn't half that confident and the missing part of the equation had to be hidden in all those years she knew nothing about. What had he learned that let him spit in the eye of the System Lords and emerge victorious? She refused to consider that it might not be a lesson she could learn.

She had to stop herself from snorting when they were pushed to their knees in the center of the courtyard. She found herself counting the seconds off in her head and...yep. There he was. One swaggering bad guy. She knew the smile was a mistake the minute she felt it, but it was too late. The man she had to assume was Mendez was instantly by her side and her scalp stung when he dug his hand into her hair and wrenched her head back.

"You find something that amuses you, bitch?"

Oh hell. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Now she was in for it.

She let her smile widen."They get you guys from central casting?" She let her eyes rove over the overly muscled and overly testosteroned men with the big guns. "Cause I gotta tell you...I think you should get your money back. "

She grunted when he back-handed her across the face and knocked her into the mud. Ow. At least he let go of her hair first. She winced and forced herself back to her knees. She spit experimentally. Yep. Face still worked.

"Cliche, Mendez. Maybe you should see your scriptwriter about that."

Astonishment warred with anger on Mendez's face and she could see the issue of her sanity hovering in brown eyes. She almost grinned. No fun when the victim refused to play by the rules, was it Mendez? In her mind's eye she saw Daniel wince and she resisted the urge to pat him on the head. She wasn't suicidal, really. And Mendez had forgotten to hit her again in his confusion.

Yep.

Score one for the crazy lady.

She listened with interest as Mendez stalked down the line and got his ya-yas out by beating up on her more predictable companions. She didn't feel deprived. Her turn would come around again. From the questions, Mendez wanted to know where some sort of weapon's cache was located. Sam didn't have a clue what he was talking about, but she had the sinking feeling Dunbar did. And possibly Grisholm.

She was just calculating the odds of Keats and company staging a fortuitous jailbreak when Mendez smiled affably. Every nerve went on alert and Sam felt something inside go cold. There was too much malicious glee in that quiet smile. She recognized that smile.

"Perhaps you think your compatriots will rescue you?"Mendez asked pleasantly.

He tilted his head expectantly, but did not seem surprised when they stay silent. He nodded to his left and one of his goons stepped forward and poured a handful of metal into his hands. Mendez smiled again, then his eyes flattened. He held up a small piece of metal, something that should have been too small to be so valuable.

"Cooper,"Mendez read.

Then he tossed the tag into the mud.

Grisholm made an aborted attempt to catch the metal before it fell, then stared at Mendez with angry eyes. Sam knew better than to let Mendez see hers. She had an odd image flash into her mind then. The Colonel and his damn yo-yo, spinning away. She mentally traced the path of the toy, idly calculating spin rate and friction co-efficients.

"James."

Really, what was so amusing about a yo-yo anyway?

"Darnley."

She'd have to ask him.

"Brown."

No doubt he'd just give her that look and change the subject.

"Whitten."

He did that alot.

"Carey."

It was one of the things that annoyed her so much. How was she supposed to learn, if he never told her what she was supposed to be learning? She brooded on that fact a bit longer.

"Hood."

Dunbar broke before Grisholm.

"We get the picture, Mendez. What do you want?" Dunbar snarled.

Sam eyed him, more than a little annoyed. Dumb. Very dumb. At least while Mendez was gloating, he wasn't causing physical damage. Which was good. Very good actually. If she had her way, he could keep gloating right on up to the point where she killed him. Then she was high-tailing it back to civilization and the monster steak the Colonel owed her.

And if that damn yo-yo stayed stuck in her brain, he was going to owe her a lifetime supply of Diet Coke.

Mendez seemed to feel he had made his point and signaled for his men to come forward. Sam debated reacting, then decided the odds were too far against her. Plus, she needed more information. She didn't know where she was, which way was home, nor what Keats and team had really been doing on that plane. Mendez wanted weapons and she was at a loss as to why he thought they could give them to him.

There were six posts set into the ground in front of a green army tent that had seen better days. The man lashing her wrists above her head forgot to watch her feet when he fondled her breast and three seconds later he was puking up his breakfast as he clutched at his crotch. Mendez strolled over and stared down at her with flat eyes.

"That was not very wise, puta,"he said softly.

There was no way to know which way to go. Either way, she was fucked. But if she was going out with a bullet in her head, what were a few more bruises? She could see it all laid out in her head. Act cowed, act like a victim and maybe when their guard was down she could get away. It could work. Everything went still for a moment as she stared into the depths of her own character and was surprised with what she found looking back.

"You're right,"she acknowledged quietly."Next time, I'll break his neck."

It was said with absolute certainty and for the first time, she knew it wasn't just bravado. Even if it wasn't true, it was still fact. It was all in what she believed. The next time, she would break the guard's neck. It was just a moment in time and Mendez still had the guns. She wasn't getting out alive, but for one split second, Mendez looked into her eyes and believed her. He hated her for it, and she was going to pay for her defiance. But...

...she had just won.

Not because of the choice she had made. Someone else in the same set of circumstances might have made a different choice and been just as right. There were, she realized, no right answers. Just answers she could live with. Maybe if she had never met Colonel Jack O'Neill she might have made a different choice. It was a choice that was going to cost her. Big time. But it was a choice she could make because oddly enough, she actually HAD a choice. In her mind's eyes she felt the crack of spine and knew she could do it.

Would do it.

And never lose a moment's sleep over it afterward.

Mendez raised his hand and ran his finger down the side of her face. She refused to flinch and held his eyes until she owned him.

"You think you are strong? A soldier, yes?"

Sam said nothing, but she did not look away. Why had she never realized the power the System Lords freely handed Colonel O'Neill? What happened when they made it personal? And why had she never realized it was not just about distraction, or bravado, or bullshit honor.

It was about choosing battlefields.

"I can hurt you, puta."

"You can,"Sam acknowledged flatly, handing him a flawed victory.

How many times had SG-1 been spared death at the hands of the Jaffa because the System Lord needed to be the one to break them? Not want. Not desire. Need.

Mendez snarled and ran his finger down the center of her chest. She did not resist, acknowledging his control...and trapping him within it. He smiled slightly, his chest inflating slightly.

"You understand."

One enemy to beat. She could do that.

"I don't know where the weapons are,"she said flatly.

Mendez tilted his head. "That is unfortunate."

Crap. She was losing him. She dredged a grin from memory. Cocky and arrogant.

"Not that I'd tell you if I did know,"she confided.

Again, she saw a blink of astonishment quickly buried.

"This camp is damn sloppy, you know,"she critically. "I would have expected better. Guess good help is hard to find nowadays."

Mendez took a half step back and regarded her warily.

"Those latrines have smelled better, I'm sure."

She winced when he smiled, then backhanded her. She rolled her eyes." Oh...like that was unexpected. Doesn't change the fact that jeep is one big heat signature. I figure my friends will blast the crap out of that first."

Another backhand, this one splitting her lip. Sam spit blood and bounced back, his own personal Weeble. She smirked. "Truth hurts huh, Mendez? I thought you ran a better operation than this. I gotta tell you, that gun placement on the east is just begging to be taken out. Begging. Who designed your west line of defense anyway? Cookie Monster?"

Mendez snarled and clenched his fist and she tensed. She saw rage pass over his face as he realized his men were looking at him and seeing him lose control. Huh, goons and Jaffa the world over. Who knew? Mendez whirled away from her and she heard herself call after him as he stalked away.

"No really...I know some people. You should talk. They subcontract," she yelled.

Mendez disappeared into his tent and silence descended. Sam winced and licked her lip cautiously. Then she turned her head to see Grisholm staring at her in wide-eyed disbelief. She rolled her head the other way to see the same mirrored in Dunbar's face. She blinked at him.

"What?"


	8. Chapter 8

When this was all over, Daniel was going to kill Jack.

Slowly.

Trekking all over hell's half-acre had a purpose offworld. New people. New cultures. New languages to play with. Daniel actually enjoyed early mornings when accompanied by copious amounts of coffee - but he held firm moral objections to swamps without ruins on the other side.

"Jackson!"

Crap.

Daniel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He wasn't certain quite what he'd done to piss off Major Greer, and he was at the point of writing it off as one of those incomprehensible military things he just didn't get. Normally, he was pretty good at the people thing. He liked people. They liked him.

Greer was the exception.

Manfully refraining from a response that sounded far too much like Jack for comfort, Daniel aimed for body language somewhere between non-confrontational and politely curious as he turned around. He hoped Sam was having a better time than he was, off playing hide and seek in the jungle. Frankly, if Jack didn't rescue him soon, Daniel was going to start pissing people off on purpose instead of accidentally.

"What part of teamwork did you not understand, Dr. Jackson?"

Daniel narrowed his eyes and resisted the urge to repeat the word back to Greer in thirty-one different languages. Including Farsi and pre-Dynastic Goa'uld. In fact, Daniel was experiencing a strong impulse to eschew language altogether in favour of a sharp right-cross.

Jack would be so proud.

Unfortunately, Greer would then proceed to disassemble Daniel, piece by bloody piece. The Marine was built like Makepeace and moved like Teal'c. All in all, not a resemblance Daniel desired to tangle with on a physical level. Which meant he was left with humble cooperation. Or sarcasm.

"Where is your team, Dr. Jackson?" Greer bit the words out slowly, as if Daniel were so stupid he didn't deserve to live.

Daniel eyed him with confusion. Instinctively he turned his head to the left to see if he had somehow lost Corporal Babcock. Not that Daniel could have seen him anyway. The Corporal was almost as good as Teal'c at playing least in sight. Just not as quiet.

He turned his head back to face Greer and was startled to find the Marine watching him with the same blank expression Jack used when something had startled him. Daniel resisted the urge to sigh. He would never understand military types. He really wouldn't. Clearly Greer had not meant Babcock.

Why Daniel should care about the rest of the team, he didn't understand. There was still five hours until dark. More than enough time to regroup. Besides, Daniel was under the impression that Greer had asked him to act as advance scout today. Probably hoping the archaeologist would walk them into that ambush site about an hour back so he'd have something else to yell at Daniel for doing. Not that anyone was going to thank Daniel for leading them into the swamp, but better tired than dead.

Even if it was just paintball rounds.

Greer was glaring at Daniel now and the archaeologist decided he wanted an answer. Reaching for his radio he pulled it from his vest and aimed the antenna back along the general way he had come. Two clicks inquired the status of the bulk of the group. A single click answered him promptly, and he watched the signal strength carefully. Another series of clicks inquired Babcock's health and well-being. There was a long pause, then a single click. A quick and dirty triangulation with the formula Sam had given him and...

"Approximately 5 clicks that way," Daniel said promptly, pointing with his radio antennae. Given the swamp and the average pace of the group, Daniel tried to recall what he had passed about 90 minutes back. "Near the edge of the swamp." Daniel frowned as he considered that they were moving alot more slowly than they had moved yesterday. But they had responded with a single click, so no one was injured. And no one had contacted him to let him know circumstances had changed.

Crap.

He couldn't give orders to Greer's men, not with Greer standing right in front of him. Another of those picky points of military etiquette Sam was always translating for him. He'd be damn glad when SG-1 found the NID agents so Daniel could shoot them and go home. This was getting annoying. He keyed his mike.

"You on a coffee break, Peters? Tell the others if they want clean bathwater tonight, they'll need to get the lead out. Or we'll be sleeping in the swamp." Daniel thought a moment, then added,"With the crocodiles."

There. That ought to do it. Threats like that worked with Spellman every time. Peters was a competitive son-of-a-gun. Unfortunately, he had taken one too many video games to heart. The reality behind his self-image was a bit more special than ops. Daniel suspected Peters had entertained visions of holding his own with Greer's men. Instead, Major Greer and his team had walked the legs off everyone on the very first day, then proceeded to kill them all in a sneaky ambush that would have done Jack proud.

Peters still hadn't forgiven Daniel for the lucky shot that had taken out Sergeant Winter.

Greer was eyeing Daniel like he couldn't decide whether to skin him alive or just stab him in the heart. Which really was an odd look to be able to recognize, if Daniel thought about it. He'd be very glad when this learning exercise was over. He got the point. He'd never leave his vest unzipped again and he would spend more time on the practice range. Now would Jack please just forgive him for being a civilian and come rescue him from Greer?

"They won't know who you are, Daniel,"Jack had said as he made a point of glaring at Daniel's unzipped vest. "Think about that."

"I know who I am,"Daniel had replied. "That's all that matters."

Jack had just sighed and muttered something that sounded like,"...your funeral."

At the time, he had thought Jack meant that none of Greer's men would know about the Stargate project and Daniel's part in it. He'd been fully prepared to be treated like just another civilian.Except Greer had it in for him and the other civilians were keeping their distance. He blamed Peters for that one and had planned to do some damage control today, but Greer had volunteered him for scouting duty.

He wondered if Jack would get mad if he just shot everybody.

Greer abruptly shook his head and sighed. "You have a gift for ruining other people's plans, don't you, Dr. Jackson?"

Daniel frowned. "Can you be more specific?"

"You'll see,"Greer said cryptically. Then he walked back in the direction of the rest of the group and disappeared into the swamp.

Daniel considered his options and went back to scouting an acceptable trail and radioing his instructions back to the group behind him.

* * *

Captain Batista eyed his Major warily as Greer thumped down beside him and yanked out his canteen. The Major was twice as covered in mud as the group he had rejoined, and the Captain doubted this had improved his temper.

"I think I may have made a mistake with Jackson,"Greer mumbled.

Batista raised one eyebrow and said nothing. Greer sloshed the water in his canteen as if debating another mouthful, then slowly put the cap back on.

"This is not going to go down the way I had planned,"Greer admitted grudgingly.

"I already told Barrett he could take his team home,"Batista admitted cautiously.

Greer's mouth twisted unhappily, but it had been obvious after thirty minutes that Jackson was not going to do the expected thing and walk his team into a nice, ego-destroying ambush.

"Uncooperative bastard,"Greer said.

Batista sighed. "I take it we're not going to find Jackson looking like something the crocodile dragged under?"

"Nope,"Greer said flatly. "We're going to walk this mud-covered, bug-bitten, sorry excuse for a team into base camp just the right side of exhausted and Jackson is going to be sitting there looking as fresh as a daisy and drinking coffee."

Batista winced. "Ouch."

"Yeah,"Greer said with a sigh."Ouch."

Which meant one of them was going to have to sit on Peters if Jackson couldn't handle him. Which, if his responses to date were anything to go by, he wouldn't.

"You still think he let Peters walk into that ambush last night?"

Greer nodded sharply. "Oh yeah. Bastard looked right at me when I gave Peters his orders. He knew -or at least he suspected - and he said nothing."

A fact Batista wouldn't have had any issues with if it had denoted a conscious choice to let Peters acquire a hard-learned lesson. Unfortunately, it looked more like a desire to see Peters fall on his face. Not an attitude Greer would want to foster and nothing in Jackson's actions had allayed their initial concerns.

"He spotted Babcock,"Greer said suddenly.

Batista blinked.

"Don't think he knew he wasn't supposed to know Babcock was there."

Batista blinked again.

"Asked him where his team was and he looked right at him,"Greer added.

"Babcock isn't part of his team,"Batista said cautiously.

Greer grunted with dry amusement."Don't think he knew that either."

Batista sat back as he tried to work out the connotations of that statement. "Well...damn."

"Man thinks he's a duck,"Greer decided.

"Wolf?" Batista asked seriously.

"Coyote, maybe,"Greer muttered, then held his right thumb and forefinger with only a crack of daylight between. "With baby teeth."

There was silence as both officers contemplated the many ways Daniel Jackson was going to complicate their lives.

"So what do you want to do?"Batista asked finally.

Greer shrugged. "Man thinks he's a duck. The ducks are annoyed with him for not acting more like a duck. Up to the wolves to show him the error of his ways."

Batista grinned. "Hoo-yah."


End file.
